


Duet for Violin and Boy

by Nanashi Jones (miaoujones)



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, Love, M/M, Violin Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-10
Updated: 2007-08-10
Packaged: 2017-12-20 13:05:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/887614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miaoujones/pseuds/Nanashi%20Jones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've done this before: Quatre playing his violin as Trowa got himself off to it. Sometimes they've been so perfectly in synch that Quatre has felt as if he were orchestrating Trowa's orgasm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Duet for Violin and Boy

Quatre focuses intently on his own fingers, as if it is his gaze that moves them. Rosining his bow comes by rote after all these years; he could do it with his eyes closed. And he has done so but he prefers it like this, bonding through sight as well as touch. Once he begins to play, he and the violin will be bound and freed by sound, but for now he has these other senses as well.

The piece is playing through his mind already—or perhaps still. For weeks, he has thought of little but the upcoming competition, now only days away. He has been living with the music, living with his violin in his head even when it hasn't been in his hands. Much is expected of him, from his teacher, his peers, his father, even his rival. He is determined not to let them down. But no one expects more of Quatre than he does himself and, more than anything, he does not want to let himself down as he did at the last competition, when he was judged the best but knew he did not deserve it. Dorothy Catalonia knew it, too; she didn't say anything but she gave him that smirk when she accepted her second place award and turned to congratulate him.

He pushes Dorothy out of his head, allowing himself to close his eyes and letting the music swell to fill his thoughts as he sets down his bow.

There's a soft, human sound as the tip of the bow meets with resistance. Quatre turns to find Trowa in an easy sprawl, rubbing his side where Quatre has unwittingly poked him. "I'm sorry! I—" Before it leaves his tongue, Quatre catches the admission that he forgot Trowa was here. "I'm sorry," he says again.

"It's okay." Trowa smiles and lifts his shirt demonstratively. "See? I'm okay."

Trowa doesn't flinch when Quatre touches the reddening spot. Quatre knows he's all right but guilt darkens his blush nevertheless. It's not just that he forgot Trowa came with him this afternoon; Quatre has been neglecting him for weeks. Trowa hasn't said a word of complaint, not about how Quatre hasn't had time for him during the day, nor how Quatre has been so tired he's been asleep before his head hits the pillow even on the nights that they've managed to make it into bed together. He's not going to say anything now, either; he just tucks his hands behind his head again and, with another smile at Quatre, closes his eyes serenely.

Quatre's fingertip lingers at Trowa's ribcage. Then he bends down to replace it with his lips, once, and again, and this time open-mouthed with a flick of his tongue.

He feels Trowa's hand in his hair, a gentle pull at the back of his head. "What are you doing?"

Quatre pushes Trowa's shirt up a little more. "Kissing it better."

"I told you it's fine," Trowa says but there's no admonishment in his tone, so Quatre kisses again. This time, Trowa lets out a soft breath and his fingers tighten in Quatre's hair. Quatre smiles against Trowa's skin and pushes the shirt up even more. "Quat," Trowa sighs, his body arching to meet Quatre's mouth as it moves to a nipple. "Oh, Quat." When Quatre's teeth latch on, though, Trowa pulls him back by the hair, a note of warning in his tone when he says Quatre's name this time.

Quatre shifts his weight to his elbow. "Too hard?"

"No." Trowa allows a small smile before saying seriously, "But you need to practice. And if you don't stop now," another slip of a smile, "I'm not going to let you."

Quatre doesn't have to look to see how hard Trowa is already, just from this; he definitely doesn't have to look to see how hard he is himself. He reaches, but Trowa catches him at the wrist. "Don't, okay?" Trowa searches Quatre's face, an earnest furrow at his own brow. "Just, play for me, maybe."

They've done this before: Quatre playing his violin as Trowa jerked off to it. Sometimes they have been so perfectly in synch that Quatre has felt as if he were orchestrating Trowa's orgasm, fucking him with the music.

"Okay." Quatre smiles as he picks up his bow. But instead of standing, he starts to touch it to Trowa's exposed torso.

"Quatre!" Trowa's protest halts the bow and it hovers just above his skin. "Don't—you'll ruin it."

"You're more important than a practice bow." Quatre's smile flashes softer as he looks into Trowa's eyes.

Then there's a flicker as something feral emerges from the curve of his lips; Quatre is still smiling as he sweeps the bow across Trowa's skin, eliciting an "oh~" that deepens to inarticulateness when he angles it back across Trowa's taut torso.

The bow rides the rise and fall of Trowa's chest a few more times before Quatre asks him to take off his clothes. Trowa sits up to remove his shirt but when he starts to lie back again, Quatre says, "These need to come off," running the tip of his bow down the leg of Trowa's jeans. So Trowa stands and Quatre remains on the floor, looking up to watch Trowa shimmy out of them. Trowa hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his boxers, eyebrows raised in question.

"Those, too."

Trowa slides them down his thighs and steps out of them. Quatre could easily and happily remain kneeling to Trowa like this, and he has done so before. But now he stands and moves behind Trowa, wrapping an arm around Trowa's chest. With his other hand, he draws the bow across Trowa's clavicle. Trowa's head falls back and Quatre adjusts the angle to brush over the hollow of Trowa's throat on the upsweep. An audibly deep breath escapes Trowa; his stance widens.

Too long. They shouldn't go this long without touching each other again. But on the other hand, Quatre muses as he strokes the bow across the arched neck, Trowa is extraordinarily beautiful in this moment.

Quatre lets his bow hand drop and circles to face Trowa. He knows Trowa would open his eyes if Quatre were to say his name, but as he feels the word on the tip of his tongue, he lets himself get lost in how Trowa looks, standing like this.

Silently, Quatre kneels. He lifts the bow and reaches around to sweep it across the backs of both of Trowa's knees, causing them to buckle before Trowa straightens them again. Now Quatre brings the bow around front to slide it along one of Trowa's trembling inner thighs, and then the other. With the tip of the bow, he nudges Trowa's sac, and Trowa's knees buckle again.

"Quat. Quatre."

Quatre drops his bow hand to the floor when their eyes meet. Before he can formulate his apology for having gone too far, Trowa says, "Take me to bed. Can we, I mean?"

Resisting the urge to once again kiss the place his bow tip has just touched, Quatre smiles and gets to his feet. He lets Trowa undress him, inhaling Trowa's quickened breath when their mouths tarry with each other. As they settle on the bed and into a deeper kiss, Quatre reaches down for Trowa's cock—and for the second time today, finds himself caught by the wrist.

"Please," Trowa says when Quatre breaks the kiss to look at him. He moistens his lips. "Please, play me."

It takes Quatre a moment to understand what Trowa is asking for. "You want the bow?"

Trowa nods. All the blood not in his cock rushes to his face.

Quatre feels a surge of heat in his own belly, his own balls. He wants to fuck Trowa now, wants to come deep, deep inside him more than almost anything. But he wants what Trowa is asking, too. He wants the flush of Trowa's skin, his teeth softly digging into his lip, the brightness and glaze in his eyes. He wants that Trowa wants this. He wants that Trowa wants this of _him_. And more than anything, Quatre wants to fuck Trowa the way he fucks his violin.

He leans over the edge of the bed to retrieve the bow. He conditions it again, not with rosin this time but with something slicker; when Trowa tries to protest again that Quatre is ruining the bow, irreparably this time, Quatre only smiles. He glances down as he sets the bow placement, then focuses on Trowa's face as he draws the bow the length of Trowa's cock. Trowa gasps and arches so that the bow slips off, and a whimper follows in the wake. Now Quatre cradles Trowa's erection in one hand, brushing the bow back and forth in short strokes, varying his soft pressure and angles, listening for the shifts in Trowa's sighs and whimpers.

As Trowa’s sounds bleed into each other, Quatre glances up at him and finds he has hooked his hands under the headboard, not for leverage, just in a simple, desperate holding on. He slows and elongates the next stroke, watching Trowa's body, watching his grip on the headboard tighten, watching the shape of Trowa's mouth as he forms a low moan.

On the verge of asking if Trowa wants release, Quatre pauses. He wishes he could see Trowa's eyes, but he doesn't ask Trowa to open them. Instead, he takes a breath, takes a chance: "Come, Trowa." He taps the tip of the bow against Trowa's cockhead. "I want you to climax for me now."

And Trowa does. With a hard arch and a deep, sigh-wrapped moan, he spills out of himself, over his own skin, over the gorgeously ruined bow.

Setting the bow on the bed, Quatre stretches out to kiss Trowa's brow, to kiss his lips. As he strokes Trowa's hair and starts stroking himself with his other hand, Trowa opens his eyes. "Oh, Quat, what have you done?" he sighs and smiles. "Now I'm in love with you."

Their gazes lock but neither of them speaks, until Trowa looks away from Quatre's widened eyes. "It's okay. You don't have to say it back. I just..." He pauses, but instead of sighing, he smiles. He looks back at Quatre. "I just wanted to say it."

Quatre doesn't say anything. He hasn't gone soft but he takes his hand off his cock and sits up. When he looks at Trowa again, their eyes don't meet; Trowa's are closed, his lips still curved up softly, his chest rising and falling with the easy beat of his heart, Trowa's heartbeat much easier than Quatre's. Quatre is sure that Trowa can feel the weight of his gaze but Trowa neither shies from nor opens into it; he just continues to breathe, his heart just continues to beat.

Sliding to the floor, Quatre leans back against the bed. His hand falls from his lap and lands on the strings Trowa bought for him yesterday. One package has been torn open with care, Trowa's handiwork, though the string hasn't been removed yet. Quatre's competition violin is already strung, of course, the strings stretched and perfect. Quatre sits up again, package in hand. He takes out the string, handle-with-care gut core, coiled and unconditioned. He starts to unwind it, but there's no violin for it, no point straightening or stretching it; he shouldn't have even taken it out. He doesn't put it back, though; he wraps the ball end around his thumb a few times; weaves it over and under his fingers, curves it around his wrist. He's risking ruining this string but his breathing is easing with each loop, so he keeps going.

Steadied, he shifts to look at Trowa, still stretched out, eyes closed. Not asleep, though. The free end of the string drags over the sheets when Quatre turns all the way around and the end grazes Trowa's arm; his eyelids flutter but don't open. Quatre moves his hand over Trowa, drawing the curve at the end of the string down Trowa's arm, watching the soft curve of Trowa's lips deepen. 

When the end reaches Trowa's hand, Quatre stops, lowers his arm, lets the string pool in Trowa's palm. His fingertips graze Trowa's skin as he picks up the free end and Trowa's hand flexes but stays open. Carefully, Quatre winds the string around Trowa's thumb, once, twice, secure; curls it around his forefinger, his middle finger, his ring finger, his pinky. Each loop draws his own bound hand closer, and he angles himself to accommodate the pull.

Trowa moves and the string goes taut between them. Their eyes meet; flutter of lashes and long, slow breath; and then Trowa is on the floor with him. This time as he stretches out, drawing Quatre down with him, Trowa keeps his eyes open. Quatre looks away only to take Trowa's hand, to circle his own around it, crossing the string up and down around Trowa's forearm. Finally, he stretches himself out beside Trowa.

Quatre's breath comes easy now, his heartbeat easy, too. And Trowa, too; Quatre feels the effortless rhythm in the vibrations along the tough, delicate string connecting them.


End file.
